Festivities and Fruitcakes
by cjnwriter
Summary: My stories for the 2014 edition of Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness! Woohoo!
1. December 1

**A/N: I'm super duper excited to participate in this year's December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness! Huge thanks to Hades Lord of the Dead, and anybody who's participating this year.**

**Be warned that my canon knowledge has gotten a little dusty over time, but I do still intend to keep things as in-character and entertaining as possible. :)**

* * *

><p><strong>December 1: "Norbury." (from Madam'zelleGiry)<strong>

**Holmes's POV**

* * *

><p>I had been restlessly pacing the length of the sitting room for exactly one hour, twenty-three minutes and forty-eight seconds, and was starting to grow more than a little anxious. I had fallen asleep on the settee around noon, and awoken around a quarter to three to find that Watson had gone out, leaving a note on my desk:<p>

_Holmes,_

_Gone out to do a little Christmas shopping. It's two o'clock now, and I won't be more than two hours._

_Watson._

It was now nine minutes past four. Watson's note had had _specifically_ stated that the two hours was an upper limit to the length of time he expected to be gone, and not an approximation that might vary in either direction!

I took a deep breath, and reminded myself that Watson had no doubt merely stopped to talk to someone. He was quite the gregarious fellow, especially around Christmas.

I grimaced as I realized that my pipe had gone out, and apparently had been that way for some time. Cursing, I dug in my dressing gown pocket in search of a book of matches.

I knew full well that the fellow didn't like me worrying like this, but I really hadn't wanted him going out while I was on this case.

I carefully attempted to extract a match from the box. Blast! My hands were shaking.

I highly doubted Garnett would stoop low enough to attempt to use my Boswell as leverage against me, but as I checked my watch for the umpteenth time and still heard no slamming of the front door and no familiar tread upon the stairs, I began to second guess my assessment of my adversary.

There! A small flame danced on the end of the match, and I carefully relit my pipe.

No, I was simply being ridiculous. Garnett was too cowardly, and besides, Watson could hold his own in a fight.

I threw the remaining portion of the match into the fireplace.

If my old friend was indeed all right, and returned home safely, I was going to kill him.

I glanced once more at the hall clock, and then strode to the window with the best view of the street. The sun had set, and the lamps were lit. The street was busy, with people scurrying too and fro, eager to find shelter and warmth from the brisk December air. No where on the street did I spy the familiar form of my friend.

Hm, that was peculiar. A boy was quietly lurking in the shadows near a parked cab across the street, and appeared to be watching my own front door. The street urchin looked familiar; more than likely he was one of my Baker Street Irregulars. But what was he doing watching my door?

All thoughts of the boy fled my mind when I saw a man in a brown coat with a slight limp climbing out of a hansom cab. There was my Watson! But as he paid the cabbie, I noticed another boy, this one quietly off the back of the cab and nonchalantly strolling away, carefully avoiding Watson. How very, very peculiar.

I had not moved from my position at the window when Watson entered the sitting room.

"Hello, Holmes," he said from behind me.

I whirled around. "You are eleven minutes late."

He sighed as he began to remove his winter clothing and warm himself before the fire. "I apologize for worrying you, old fellow. But it is hardly my fault that the streets were so horrible. It took three times longer to go anywhere than it would have in warmer temperatures."

"Then you ought to have waited for warmer temperatures to do your shopping. Did you notice anything peculiar?"

Watson froze in the middle of removing a boot, and stared at me, looking taken aback. "Well…"

"Well, what?" I demanded.

"I am sure it was only my imagination, but I had the strangest feeling that I was being followed." My friend frowned.

"By whom?"

"By several of our Irregulars."

I nodded slowly. "I was rather afraid you would say that. I saw two of the boys on the street. One appeared to be watching the house, and the other had been on the back of your cab, even as you arrived here."

"But why would they do that?"

I swallowed hard. "I suspect that Garnett has paid them to spy on us."

"Not our boys!" Watson exclaimed. His expression of fear and disbelief no doubt matched my own.

"I can see no plausible alternative," I said grimly.

"If this is the case, then what are we to do?" My Boswell asked, his voice shaking as he shivered.

"I shall go speak to the boy still across the street, and you, my dear Watson, will stay here and warm yourself."

"Thank you," my friend replied, as I began to search for my gloves. As soon as I was bundled in all of my winter gear, I descended the stairs, and stepped outside before I could change my mind about braving the cold. Brr! It was no wonder Watson was still shivering!

Hunching over in an attempt to retain warmth, I crossed the street to where the boy still stood in the shadows. His eyes grew as wide as sovereigns as I approached, and he took a step back.

"Good evenin', Mr. 'Olmes," he said nervously.

"Good evening, David," I replied. "Is there a particular reason you and your friends are spying on Watson? Has someone paid you off?"

"Paid us off?" the boy scoffed indignantly. "Cor! What d' yew take us for? We'd never take money to spy on the Doctor, or anything loike that!"

"Then what is all this about?" I demanded.

"We was only tryin' to figure out what 'e wants for Christmas!"

I opened my mouth to speak, then stopped. "Wait, what?"

The boy rolled his eyes. "We was only tailin' the Doctor to find out what he wants for Christmas!"

We were both silent for a very, very long moment.

"Oh." I finally replied. "Well, I am very sorry for misjudging you boys."

David nodded. "It's all roight, no 'arm done."

"I wish you luck in finding out what the fellow does want—I must admit I have had no luck thus far," I said, trying to make my tone as warm as possible. I felt rather horrible for thinking they would've agreed to spy on us for some nefarious criminal, when they were only trying to do something kind for Watson!

"Ta, Mr. 'Olmes," the boy replied.

I nodded. "Now, we'd both better get indoors before we catch a cold. Do you have somewhere to go?"

"Yes I do," he replied. "I'm stayin' with Tom's grandma these days."

"Good. I shall see you another day, then."

"Good-bye," he said, throwing me a crooked grin.

"Good-bye," I replied, and could not help but smile back.

I was still smiling when I returned to the sitting room, and laughed aloud as I threw my coat over the back of a chair and undid my bootlaces.

"What is so terribly funny, Holmes?" Watson asked from his seat before the fire, his voice exasperated.

I found that I was laughing too hard to speak now, and only waved my hand in response.

"Confound it! What is going on?" Watson demanded. "Get ahold of yourself!"

"Norbury, Watson!" I exclaimed.

"What the devil are you going on about?!"

"It's Norbury all over again! I had it all wrong. The boys haven't been paid by Garnett to spy on us, they were tailing you because they wanted to figure out what you want for Christmas!"

"Good heavens, that's what all this was about?" my friend exclaimed. "And here we thought—" he broke off with a chuckle. "We thought it was something criminal, and it was only about Christmas?"

I had not completely looked him in the face during this exchange, but now I met his eyes. In an instant, we were both laughing uncontrollably at the ridiculousness of the situation.


	2. December 2

**December 2: "Holmes accidentally uses Mrs Hudson's newest perfume. And she is NOT happy about it." (from silvermouse)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Watson's POV.**

I was sitting in my chair by the fire, reading a book, when Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway, arms akimbo. "Mr. Holmes! Have you seen my new lavender perfume?"

Holmes, who had been seated in the corner tinkering with his chemistry equipment, gave a start. "Oh! The—er—lavender perfume, you said?"

"Yes," she replied, tapping her foot impatiently. "Have you seen it, or have you not?"

"Well…" My friend looked uncomfortable. "I may seen it, and made use of a little—"

"Why on God's green earth would you need to wear lavender perfume?!"

"What?!" Holmes's expression turned from discomfort to horror. "I didn't _wear_ the perfume! I was using it in an experiment! The high alcohol content was what I needed to determine—"

"How many times have I told you not to use my things?!" Our incensed landlady strode across the sitting room past me and toward Holmes, who flushed bright red. I pretended to be engrossed in my book, as if this would render me invisible to her.

Holmes stood up, and backed quickly towards his bedroom door. "Please, I—"

"I don't want excuses, I want my perfume back!"

"All right, all right, just let me grab it—" He took two more steps back.

"Make it quick!" Mrs. Hudson advanced towards him.

"—it won't take a minute it's just next to the arsenic—" Holmes disappeared into his bedroom.

"Good God!" The poor woman put her head in her hands.

"—but don't worry, I only used about a third—" came his voice through the doorway.

"Why did I ever let you move in here?!" She threw her arms in the air in despair.

"—and the rest is untouched, and should be good as new." Holmes returned to the sitting room, carrying a small lavender-colored bottle.

"It had better be, so help me!"

"Here, here, take it, take it! And I swear I shall stay out of your things from now on!" He thrust the bottle into her hands.

"Thank you!" Mrs. Hudson turned on her heel and stormed from the room.

Holmes breathed a sigh of relief, then glanced in my direction.

Try as I might, I could not keep the smile from my face.

"Don't say a word, Watson," my friend warned, his face still flushed with embarrassment. "Not a single word."


	3. December 3

**December 3: "Perfect weather." (from KnightFury)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Watson's POV.**

* * *

><p>It was a beautiful day, I thought, as I gazed out my bedroom window that morning. A light breeze, clear skies, mildly cool temperatures—ah!<p>

"It's a beautiful day outside," I commented as I entered the sitting room, where Holmes was already seated at the table having breakfast.

"Mm," he grunted in reply.

"Would you care for a stroll after breakfast?" I inquired as I seated myself across from him. "Through the park, perhaps?"

Holmes shrugged. "I am not sure I am in the mood…"

"It is rarely so nice outside," I added.

"Well, perhaps, but…"

"It's the perfect weather for a stroll." I was wheedling now, and we both knew it.

"I, well, I…"

"And I _suppose_ I could take a walk by myself, but I would much rather go with a friend."

"Er…"

"Hm, perhaps today is Lestrade's day off, I could always see if—"

"Fine!" Holmes exclaimed. "Fine, I shall take a walk with you!"

I grinned widely. "Thank you so much, old fellow!"


	4. December 4

**December 4: "Holmes unwittingly ruins everything." (from Temporarily Abaft)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Written in third person.**

* * *

><p>"Sherlock! Do you have any idea how serious this is?!" Mycroft glared at his brother from across his desk, grey eyes blazing.<p>

"I had no idea the man was a Russian diplomat, Mycroft!" Sherlock threw his arms in the air. "Tell me, how was I to know?!"

"Maybe you could've use your bloody God-given brains to see that what you said was _horribly_ offensive—whether it was to a diplomat or anybody else! You've ruined the Christmas party for everyone, and may well have started a war!" The elder Holmes slammed a fist down on his table in frustration.

Sherlock took a deep breath and slowly exhaled through his nose, trying to keep his temper in check. "Mycroft, do calm down. I am sure you will sort it all out."

"As per usual, I am left to clean up the mess _you_ leave behind!" Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Get out of my office, I have a good deal of work ahead of me."


	5. December 5

**December 5: "Snowed in." (from I'm Nova)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Third person POV.**

* * *

><p>The snow had been falling fast since mid-afternoon Monday.<p>

"Goodness, Holmes! I can hardly even see the houses across the street, what with all this snow!"

"I can assure you with confidence that they look just like they did yesterday, Watson. Do cease to strain your eyes."

* * *

><p>By Tuesday, a thick blanket covered the buildings, cabs, streets, carts, and anything else left uncovered.<p>

"Look at all that snow, Holmes!"

"Hmph."

* * *

><p>By Wednesday, cabs were getting stuck in the streets, and people were trudging through the snow just to make it home to their families.<p>

"Brr! Goodness, Holmes! You look terrible!"

"So would you, if you'd walked ten blocks home in these conditions!"

* * *

><p>By Thursday, Londoners were staying home from work and school, simply because they could not get through their own front doors.<p>

"Just stay home today! I am sure your client will understand. I can't push any harder on this blasted door!"

"Argh! Fine! But I am leaving first thing tomorrow, then!"

* * *

><p>By Friday, the snowfall finally began to slow, but it was too dangerously cold for anyone to begin moving the snow.<p>

"Holmes, get back inside this instant! You'll freeze to death in these conditions!"

"Good heavens, Watson! Don't lean so far out of the window, you'll frighten Mrs. Hudson to death if you fall!"

* * *

><p>By Saturday, the snowstorm finally passed. The sky was a clear, deep blue, but it was still extremely cold.<p>

"Stop your whining! I don't care if you have a telegram from a prince in Romania, you are _not_ going anywhere this morning, it's still much too cold!"

"But _Watson_!"

* * *

><p>By Sunday, it was finally warm enough to begin moving some of the snow, but everyone was still stuck in their homes for the day.<p>

"Holmes, I swear, if you set _one_ more thing on fire, boil _one_ more smelly chemical, or shoot the wall _one_ more time, there _will_ be hell to pay!"

"I. Am. So. _Bored._"

* * *

><p>By Monday, hardly anyone was still snowed in, and nobody was as relieved as Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.<p>

"Thank God Almighty! Enough snow has been cleared for you to leave! Now get out, and don't come back for at least a day!"

"You don't have to tell me twice! Good-bye, Watson! I shall have a _wonderful_ day!"

"Not as wonderful a day as I will have!"


	6. December 6

**December 6: "A welcoming home after a long day." (from KnightFury)**

**A/N: Holmes's POV. Takes place in the earlier years of Holmes and Watson's friendship. I wrote it quickly—hope it's still fairly in character.**

* * *

><p>It had been a very long time since I was this tired. Everything about this blasted case had taken so much longer than it really ought to have…which was why it was nearly one in the morning, and I was only just arriving home now.<p>

I closed the front door softly behind me and tiptoed up the stairs to the sitting room, hoping that I could make it all the way to my room without disturbing Watson or Mrs Hudson.

It was dark in the sitting room, and I didn't want to light the gas, so I avoided the furniture by memory and the dim light of the dying embers of the fireplace. Slipping off my coat, I laid it gently down on a chair, figuring I could deal with it in the morning.

It took me a moment to realize that there was a person in the chair.

I gave a loud gasp of surprise, which awakened the occupant of the chair—Watson?!

"What are you doing up so late?!" I whispered.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," the Doctor replied softly, rubbing his eyes and yawning. "Goodness, is it really a quarter after one?"

"Yes, unfortunately, it is," I replied. "Were you waiting up for me?"

"Well, yes, I was," my flatmate replied. "I thought perhaps that you might need a sounding board when you returned home, and then I apparently grew drowsy and fell asleep in my chair." He yawned again.

"You didn't have to do that," I said quickly, an unfamiliar feeling growing in my chest.

Watson shrugged. "That's all right." It was difficult to tell, but he sounded a little hurt.

"That is to say, I am grateful, but you needn't sacrifice your comfort on my behalf." There, now maybe he would understand that I had not meant to sound so brusque.

The Doctor chuckled. "That is what friends do for one another, Holmes."

Friends? Watson considered me to be his friend? Goodness, had the man really grown so fond of me to consider me to be his friend?

"Well, I thank you all the same," I replied, hoping I did not sound as uncomfortable as I felt. It would be nice to have someone I considered to be a friend, I supposed…I was simply not used to that idea…

"You're very welcome, of course," Watson replied warmly, rising stiffly from his seat.

"And, er, if you ever need anything…" I began awkwardly, though I had no idea how I would finish the thought. Hm, if I were to have a friend, Watson would be just the man. I had never considered the possibility before.

"I shall let you know," Watson smiled broadly. "Thank you. Good night, my dear fellow."

"Good night," I replied, relieved the conversation was over. As my flatmate exited the room and began limping up the stairs to his bedroom, I realized the strange sensation I had been feeling was affection.

Yes, Watson was a good man, and would be a good man to have as a friend.


	7. December 7

**December 7: "Holmes and Watson embark on a case which has supernatural connotations..." (from Hades Lord of the Dead)**

**A/N: I may have stretched the definition of the word "supernatural"…**

**…and the word "case"…**

**But hey, it was fun writing it. XD**

* * *

><p>It began, as all strange days began: with the misleading appearance of being an absolutely ordinary day.<p>

Holmes and Watson had left their rooms in Baker Street early that morning, and had been investigating a case in the north side of London. It was just getting to be lunchtime when the two decided no more could be done at the scene, and all parties would be best served if Watson's ravenous appetite was abated.

So it was, that around a quarter after noon, the detective and his Boswell were seated comfortably in the back of a hansom cab bound for Baker Street. They were only a block away from their destination when a man in a lavender suit materialized in front of the cab and immediately crumpled to the ground as the hansom struck him.

"STOP!" Holmes yelled in a strident tone, though the cabbie was already doing so.

"Good heavens!" Watson exclaimed as the two clambered quickly out of the cab. "Where the devil did he come from, anyhow?"

The young man, thin and sporting a head of curly red hair lay sprawled on the cobblestone streets, obviously unconscious. Watson did a quick examination, and determined that the man had not broken any bones.

"Let's bring him to the flat, that way I can watch for signs of a concussion," said the doctor.

"Good idea," Holmes replied. "We won't be able to fit him in the hansom with us, though. I shall pay the cabman, and we can carry him the remaining block. Put that down—I shall carry his briefcase; you are already carrying your own doctors' bag."

Needless to say, the pair received more than the usual number of stares. It is not every day that one sees two dignified gentleman carrying an unconscious ginger in a purple suit down Baker Street. The stairs were the most difficult part, but the detective and doctor managed them fairly well; the unconscious man was unusually thin, and so not very heavy.

As soon as they had lain their patient upon the settee, Watson began a more thorough examination of his, and Holmes began a more through investigation of his belongings.

"Holmes, for goodness' sake, get your nose out of his briefcase!"

"I was only curious as to what sort of business a man with such a loud suit would be doing!"

Watson rolled his eyes, and returned his attention to his young patient. It had not been five seconds, when Holmes gave a cry of surprise, and his friend whirled round to see why.

The doctor gave a cry of surprise as well, when he saw that Holmes had his arm—all the way to the shoulder—_reaching straight down into the briefcase_!"

"Holmes—what are you—?! Why, that's impossible!" Watson spluttered.

"It is larger on the inside!" the detective exclaimed, reaching farther into the case. He lost balance, and fell headlong into the bag. "Agh!"

"Holmes!" Watson yelled, diving towards his friend, but he was too late. There was a resounding crash as the detective struck the bottom of the case. The doctor looked in the bag, and experienced the dizzying realization that the briefcase, which appeared to be about four inches thick, contained a space the size of a small room. Holmes seemed to have fallen at least six feet.

The detective groaned. "That _hurt_!"

"Just a moment Holmes, I'll get you out of there! Let me find a rope or something…"

It was just then that the man on the settee gave a loud grunt, and began shifting positions and muttering to himself.

Watson wasn't able to catch all of what he said, but what he did hear did not make much sense.

"Apparation lessons…blasted waste…better off taking the knight bus…good heavens, where am I?!"

The man had opened his eyes, and was now sitting bolt upright on the settee.

Watson quickly approached his patient's side, and spoke calmly, though he felt anything but calm. Nothing made sense about this! "You're in the sitting room of 221b Baker Street. Our cab struck you in the street, so we brought you in here to be sure you were not suffering from a concussion. I am Dr. Watson, and my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes…well…he is in a bit of a predicament." Watson glanced apologetically towards the open briefcase.

"Watson? Watson, what's going on?! I can't see a thing, and I can't make out a word you're saying, old man! Get me out of this blasted thing!"

"Just a moment, Holmes! Our new acquaintance has woken up," Watson shouted at the briefcase.

The redhead looked horrified for a moment, then his expression changed to amusement. "I thank you for going to the trouble of picking me up off the street, but I do with your friend was a little less nosy." He muttered something that sounded like "bloody Muggles" but Watson couldn't be sure. "My name is Dumbledore, by the way. Albus Dumbledore."

"A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Dumbledore, though I wish it had been under other circumstances," said Watson.

"Yes, well, such is life," returned Dumbledore. "I do like your carpet, by the way. The combination of the colors and floral pattern is very calming."

Watson looked a little bewildered by the random comment, but Dumbledore appeared oblivious.

"Now, how about we see about freeing your nosy fellow-lodger." The odd man pulled an ornately carved and varnished stick out of an inside pocket in his suit jacket, and turned to the briefcase.

"What are you—?" Watson began

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Dumbledore exclaimed. The doctor watched in transfixed horror as an equally terrified Sherlock Holmes floated out of the briefcase and landed gracefully on the carpet.

"What—?" began Holmes.

"How—?" began Watson.

Dumbledore hushed them both. "Shh. I think I shall be off now."

Holmes and Watson stood in stunned silence as the strange young man closed his briefcase, picked it up, crossed to the doorway, and turned to face them again, his hands held aloft.

"Thank you once again, gentleman," Dumbledore said. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, but I'm afraid you are going to have to forget this particular adventure. Obliviate!"

* * *

><p>The doctor and the detective stood across a few paces from each other, blinking, as though they'd been blinded by a bright light.<p>

"I say, Holmes," said Watson, rubbing his temple. "Why do I feel as though I've forgotten something important?"

"I haven't the foggiest notion," the detective replied. "But it would be appreciated if you could tell my why the devil my back hurts so much!"

"…I think you were hit by a cab," Watson replied slowly.

Holmes frowned. "Was I really? My recollection is vague at best. But that is to be expected if I was concussed. Do I have a concussion?"

"I—I don't know," Watson replied. "I don't remember. Do I have a concussion?"

"Were we both hit by a cab?" asked Holmes in disbelief.

"I don't know!" Watson replied in a frustrated tone. "That's it, we need my friend Dr. Clarke! Perhaps he could tell us what the devil is wrong with us!"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Poor Dr. Clarke is going to be a very confused man very soon. And Dumbledore needs to work on his Apparation!**


	8. December 8

**December 8: "Holmes and Watson travel through time." (from I'm Nova)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: ****_Feel free to skip the Author's Note if you're already familiar with Back to the Future._**

**For anybody who hasn't seen it, ****_Back to the Future_**** was a movie from the '80s, which takes place in a fictional California town. The gist is that Doc Brown, an eccentric scientist, has turned his Delorean car into a time machine. It drives like a normal car until you reach 88 miles per hour and then bang!—you travel to whatever time it was set to go to. Doc and his friend Marty McFly, a typical electric-guitar-loving '80s teenager, do some traveling through time in this car.**

**I recommend searching Google images for "Doc Brown and Marty McFly" and then "Back to the Future Delorean", as Watson has a difficult time describing them. (I had links to pictures, and forgot Fanfiction doesn't let you copy&paste from stories! Argh! Ah, well.)**

**Anyway, I didn't want anybody who hadn't seen it totally in the dark! Now here's the story:**

* * *

><p>The phrase "an average day" took on a new meaning from the first day I began lodging with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but even nearly half a decade of his strange mannerisms and stranger cases had not prepared me for the shocking events that memorable day in the autumn of 1885.<p>

My friend and I had been engaged on a case in the country just south of Leicester, which Holmes had solved earlier that morning. I'd cajoled him into agreeing to take a walk with me into the countryside, because the weather had not been so nice in a long while, and it was unlikely to be so again until spring.

We had been walking for perhaps an hour, talking sometimes, but mostly silently enjoying the fresh air and each other's company. It was about then that we heard a loud crash and the sound of the tall grass being crushed.

Holmes and I sprinted up the hill towards the sound, and when we reached the summit and peered over. The sight that greeted us was like nothing we had expected.

We both froze, and watched in horrified awe as a large, carriage-like contraction careened through the meadow, fishtailing uncontrollably but slowing rapidly. As it came to a screeching halt, it became clear that this blue metal contraption was a carriage that moved without horses. I vaguely wondered if it ran on steam power, as I'd heard others say carriages would one day would, before realizing that there may well be more serious matters to thing about.

"Come, Holmes!" I began dashing after towards the carriage, my friend behind me. "There is undoubtedly at least one person, if not two inside. We had better make sure they are not hurt!"

We began sprinting down the hill toward the carriage, which was beginning to smoke.

"Watson, look! The trail left by the carriage—" he paused to take a breath "—it begins in the middle of the meadow!"

I could only respond by shaking my head in disbelief; I did not have any breath to spare.

We were able to see the carriage more clearly as we approached. The machine was undoubtedly metal, and there were a variety of wires and pipes and gear-like things, and all matter of other machinery that I had little doubt would make any electrician's head spin. A metal plate on the back displayed the letters "OUTATIME". Goodness! Where on earth had it come from?

Billowing white steam rose from every crack and crevice of the vehicle as the doors of the vehicle opened with a loud hiss.

A wide-eyed man with a shock of white hair sticking out in all directions and clad in a long white coat clambered awkwardly out of one side of the vehicle. A boy with long dark hair wearing very strange apparel—a plaid shirt, bright orange vest, trousers made of some sort of dark blue material, and white shoes adorned with a curious symbol—emerged from the opposite side.

They looked around in obvious bewilderment for a moment, before the older gentleman spotted us and began to dash toward us with an awkward, clumsy gait, the boy at his heels.

"Excuse me!" exclaimed the man breathlessly when he reached Holmes, and gestured wildly. "Could you tell me what year it is?"

Holmes and I exchanged a baffled look. Between his American accent, strange apparel, and even stranger question, the man was a total enigma to me, and the boy no better.

"Eighteen ninety-five," my friend replied.

Both the man and the boy's eyes widened and jaws dropped. They stared at one another in disbelief for a moment.

"Great Scott, Marty!" exclaimed the white-haired man, grabbing the boy by the shoulders and shaking him in his excitement. "We've traveled back a hundred years—and all the way to England!" His face broke into a wide, elated grin of sheer joy.

"Wow, that's incredible, Doc!" the boy replied, grinning back. "How'd you do that?!"

"I installed a space-travel feature last week, and completely forgot I'd set it to England until just now!" The man couldn't have looked happier.

"You mean to say that you are from the future?!" I gasped in disbelief, looking strange pair up and down.

"Yep!" Marty replied, crossing his arms proudly. "From 1985!"

I glanced in Holmes's direction to gauge his reaction, and was rather surprised to see his eyes bulging and his mouth gaping. Apparently this was simply too much for him.

"Oh! Let me introduce myself," exclaimed the man suddenly. "I am Doc Brown, and this is my young friend Marty McFly. And…who are you?"

"I am Doctor Watson, and this is my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes," I replied. "It's—er—a pleasure to meet you," I added uncertainly.

Brown whirled to face Marty, his face full of glee. "We travel back in time, and the first people we meet are Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson?! Could this day get any better?!"

"This is crazy!" Marty replied, grinning.

"Beg pardon?" asked Holmes, still in shock.

"You two are extremely famous in the future!" Brown explained. "You ought to come with us to 1985—we could show you!"

"Really?" I asked. "You could really do that? Take us to the future?"

Brown shrugged. "Why not? I've definitely got enough plutonium to get us back to 1985 Hill Valley and back here again!"

"Well, Holmes?" I turned to my friend.

My friend broke into a wide grin. "What are we waiting for?"

Doc Brown jumped in sheer glee. "Great Scott, Mary! Do you know what this means?"

"What?" asked Marty, grinning.

"We are going back to the future—_with Sherlock Holmes_!"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry for the delay in getting this posted. It's been a while since I last watched ****_Back to the Future_****, and I had to find the time to re-watch some clips to keep everything in-character and such.**

**Also, no idea what the terrain near Leicester is like, I just looked at a map of England, and picked a random town.**

**Thanks for reading. :)**


	9. December 9

**December 9: "Carol singers." (from KnightFury)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Takes place in the late 1890s. Watson's POV.**

* * *

><p>"For the last time, Watson, the answer is still 'no'! I shall <em>not<em> go to the Scotland Yard Christmas party! If you want to go so badly, go on your own!"

I sighed as my friend stormed out of the room. I had thought it might be fun to go to the Christmas party with Holmes, as we both had many Yarders we considered friends, but my friend was dead set against going, as he was every year.

This year would be different, I decided, as I began to compose a telegram to Lestrade.

* * *

><p>It was five o'clock in the evening of the Christmas party when I heard the loud chattering of voices outside.<p>

I glanced up from the novel I had been reading to see if Holmes had noticed, but he was apparently too engrossed in the French criminal investigation essay he was reading.

He did look up when he heard the singing.

I had never heard 'O Little Town of Bethlehem' sung so off key before, and judging by his expression of shock and abject horror, neither had he.

It was all I could do stifle my laughter as Holmes sprang from his chair, ran to the window and threw it open.

"What the devil—?!" he exclaimed, and I heard the carolers outside dissolve into their own laughter. "Lestrade? Hopkins? Gregson? And you too, Patterson? Aren't you all supposed to be doing your merrymaking someplace else?"

By now I was at the window with Holmes, and looking out onto the street, I could see Lestrade had rounded up 30-odd co-workers to corral Holmes into coming to the Christmas party.

"Yes we are!" called back Lestrade. "But a party isn't a party until Sherlock Holmes is there! We will continue singing unless you and the Doctor come back with us!"

Holmes whirled to face me. "This is your doing, isn't it, Watson?!"

I opened my mouth to reply that it was as much Lestrade's as mine, but he shushed me with a gesture.

"I shall deal with you later," he muttered warningly, and turned back those outside. "Fine! Watson and I shall come! But don't expect me to enjoy it!"

A chorus of cheers and yells rang out from those outside.

"Wahey for Holmes!"

"Thank goodness! I'm never singing again—we sounded terrible!"

"Get some Christmas cheer, Mr. Scrooge!"

Holmes scowled, and shouted back out the window before slamming it closed: "_Bah humbug_!"

My friend turned to face me, his eyes still blazing, and for a moment I was afraid I had misjudged him.

Then his face softened and he burst into laughter. "My dear Watson," he said fondly when his mirth had subsided. "As irritated as I am that you have subjected me to that," he gestured towards the window, "I am flattered that you truly want me to come to a Christmas party with you. I rather thought you'd enjoy yourself more if I did not come."

"Of course I want you to come!" I exclaimed. "You are my dearest friend, after all. I don't know where you got a silly notion like that, but it's utter piffle."

Holmes chuckled softly. "Well, I am glad for that. I shall at least attempt to have a good time tonight."

"That's the spirit, Scrooge!" I quipped, jumping aside and laughing when Holmes tried to swat my shoulder.

"That's quite enough of that, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, laughing.

* * *

><p>The Christmas party was even more enjoyable than I had expected it to be, and I was glad Holmes had agreed to come. Though he refused to admit it, it was clear he was having a very good time.<p>

At the end of the evening, Holmes informed the Yarders that he would come again the next year if at all possible—but only so he would never have to hear them attempt to sing ever again.


	10. December 10

**December 10: "Lestrade's Christmas gift." (from I'm Nova)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Watson's POV.**

* * *

><p>"I say, what have you got there, Watson?" inquired Sherlock Holmes as he entered the sitting room, clad in his grey dressing gown and puffing on his cherrywood pipe. I was seated at the table and looking through the mail.<p>

"A parcel has just arrived in the mail, from Inspector Lestrade, no less," I replied. "It's addressed to you."

"Give that to me!" Holmes exclaimed, snatching it up and inspecting it closely. "Hum! Very curious; I seldom receive mail from policemen."

I snorted. "It is very likely a Christmas gift."

Holmes took a long, thoughtful drag on his pipe. "Do you really think so? I have never given the fellow a Christmas gift before."

"Well, what else do you suppose it might be?" I asked.

"An excellent question," the detective replied, now holding the parcel with both hands and clenching the pipe between his teeth. "Well, there is only one way to find out." He began eagerly tearing off the brown paper, and then opened the box inside. I watched with interest as my friend reached inside the box, and his expression turned to bewilderment. "What on earth…?" He pulled what appeared to be a deformed piece of grey fabric out of the box. Straightening it, we realized that it was a deerstalker cap.

I burst into laughter and Holmes threw the thing on the table.

"Confound it, Watson!" he exclaimed. "I am going to murder that sorry excuse of an artist you allowed to illustrate your last several stories! I would not be caught dead wearing that—that _thing_! I don't pretend to understand it; I don't even hunt, for goodness' sake!"

"See if there's a note with it," I said, gesturing towards the box.

Holmes turned the box upside down and a piece of paper fell onto the table. He snatched it up and red aloud: "From your adoring fans at Scotland Yard. Merry Christmas to you. Signed, G Lestrade."


	11. December 11

**December 11: "Mrs. Hudson takes in a stray cat." (from SheWhoScrawls)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Life's been insane, but I'm trying to catch up. The stories may be shorter and less detailed than usual, simply because I'm short on time.**

**With this story, I'm continuing with my sort of running joke from previous December Calendar Challenges that Holmes has a deathly fear of cats.**

**Mrs. Hudson's POV.**

* * *

><p>"Mrs. Hudson!" Mr. Holmes's voice bellowed across the entire house. "What the devil is this <em>thing<em> doing in my sitting room?!"

I heaved a great sigh and took off my oven mitts, and threw them on the counter. "What on earth are you talking about?!" I shouted as I ascended the stairs.

"This—this cat!" The man yelled.

Oh, dear. It seems my lodger had discovered the little grey kitten I had rescued from the street yesterday.

When I finally reached the sitting room, it was quite a sight that met my eyes. Mr. Holmes was standing on a chair, brandishing an umbrella at the small kitting, which was batting playfully at the bottom of the chair.

"Eugh! Get it away!" The detective shrieked.

"Calm down!" I shouted at him as I swooped in and rescued the poor creature. "It's only a little kitten!"

"It's a horrid creature, and I don't want it anywhere near me again," he replied, stepping down from the chair and trying to recover his dignity. I've known Sherlock Holmes for years, and it still baffles me to no end that a man who would stop at nothing to capture a bloodthirsty criminal would be scared of such a thing as harmless little kittens!

"That's just fine, as I don't want it anywhere near you either!" I returned before sweeping from the room.


	12. December 12

**December 12: "Poison." (from SheWhoScrawls)**

* * *

><p>"Good heavens, what is that smell?!" exclaimed Watson as he descended the stairs to the kitchen.<p>

"Nothing to worry about, Watson, I assure you!" Holmes shot over his shoulder as he frantically stirred the pungent mixture in a wooden bowl.

"Are you quite sure? What are you doing in the kitchen? Is that an _apron_ you're wearing?!"

The detective did not cease his stirring, but looked insulted. "I did not want to dirty my suit."

"You only answered the third question," said Watson, arms crossed. He was now standing next to his flatmate and staring into the bowl. He crinkled his nose in disgust. "Eugh! That smells terrible! What is it—or do I even want to know?"

"Poison," Holmes replied, as though it were a perfectly natural thing.

"Ah," was Watson's only reply, but he was thinking, _I am going to have a word with Mrs. Hudson when she returns so that this never happens again._


	13. December 13

**December 13: "The best gift of his life." (from I'm Nova)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Not totally happy with this one, but I didn't know where to go with it. Holmes's POV.**

* * *

><p>It had been dreadfully difficult to find a suitable Christmas present for Watson.<p>

He was really not the sort of fellow who made it easy for one to tell what he wanted. I had made sure I pointed out the very well made but reasonably priced magnifying glass every time Watson and I had walked past it while doing our shopping, so I hoped that had been enough for Watson to be able to figure out what sort of thing I really needed.

However, Watson had not said or done anything to clue me in to what _he_ wanted. I spent hours searching through stacks of novels, through pens, through notebooks, and endless assortments of other things I thought might interest him. If only I knew what he really wanted!

I eventually settled for a very lovely blue pen and a leather-bound notebook, and hoped my friend would like it.

To my surprise, when he opened the gift and first laid eyes on what was inside, he gasped and exclaimed with pure joy, "Oh, Holmes! This is exactly what I wanted! However did you know?!"

I apparently had God watching over me while I was shopping, for I had no idea.


	14. December 14

**December 14: "Lestrade receives a Christmas card and eats his words." (from Emma Lynch)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sequel to my December 10 story (the one where Lestrade mails Holmes a deerstalker cap as a joke Christmas gift).**

**Lestrade's POV.**

* * *

><p>I was seated at my desk, my head in my hands. It had been a very long day, and I could not seem to rid myself of the persistent throbbing pain in my right temple.<p>

The blasted Anderson family poisoning case was driving me up the walls. Nothing added up, or even made sense! As soon as I thought I had a few leads to follow, they would slip away. It was maddening!

I knew what I needed to do, but that did not mean I was eager to do it. I stared down at the message scrawled in the Christmas card on my desk.

_Dear Inspector Lestrade,_

_I see from the papers that you are in rather a tough spot with that Anderson case. I would be quite willing to help you, but only if you agree to never make a reference to that atrocious hat ever again. In fact, I would be much obliged if you forgot it ever existed._

_A very merry Christmas to you._

_Signed,  
>Sherlock Holmes.<em>


	15. December 15

**December 15: "Below freezing." (from Lucillia)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Warning for angst. This story did not go as planned, it just sort of wrote itself as I went, and to be honest I've never written anything quite like it before.**

**Hopefully it will make sense. Holmes is definitely suffering from hypothermia.**

**Holmes's POV.**

* * *

><p>I had been cold before, of that I am certain, but never like this.<p>

Every muscle in my body ached from shivering. I had long ago ceased to feel my hands, feet, and exposed skin of my face. My mouth was dry and my tongue felt papery. I wished I had some water. And I wished I could find Watson.

I had tried to be careful—truly, I had! …I couldn't quite remember what precautions I'd taken, but I was _sure_ that was the case.

I stumbled over a stone and nearly fell before catching myself. Confound it, why was I walking? I was too tired to walk. For that matter, where was I going?

And why was I so confused?

All I could see by the dim starlight was the snow, falling quickly and covering everything around me. Where was I? And where the devil had Watson gotten to? Hadn't he just been behind me?

I held up my gloved hands to my face, to assure myself that I at least still had a body of some sort. I was starting to feel very strange indeed.

Still staring at my hands, I thought of my violin, and wished it were in my hands now. It was dreadfully silent here, alone in the dead of night.

If I concentrated, I could hear the opening notes of my latest improvisation. As the music carried on, it seemed to cease being a part of my imagination, and began wafting through the forest about me.

The melody wove around the trees and over boulders, down the stream, among the stars. I could hear interweaving harmonies I had never before imagined, and felt a wave of calm wash over me.

What did it matter that I didn't know where I was or how I got here? The music was so beautiful that nothing else mattered.

My heart leapt as the music built to a crescendo, and I began to laugh. Ah! Truly, in all the world, there was nothing like a well-played violin! How I wished my dear Watson were here to hear it.

Before I realized what was happening, my laughter had become sobbing.

Because now I remembered.

I remembered walking with Watson along the cliff to the Falls of Reichenbach, sending Watson away with the boy in search of a sick woman who didn't exist. I could still see Moriarty in my mind's eye, watch our fight at the falls, and my escape. And I will never forget Watson's voice, never stop hearing him call my name. It tore me apart to do it, but I never answered him. I couldn't. I could not put him in any more danger.

After nine long months, here I was.

Lost, cold, and so very alone.

The music faded and died, and I thought that perhaps I would too. Who would come for me, if not Watson? This is how I would meet my end, I could see it now.

My knees buckled and I fell to the ground. I would die as I had lived: lost, cold, and alone.

I watched the snow fall silently about me, to exhausted to move a muscle.

"God, please, don't let me die."

The raspy, cracked voice pierced the stillness of the night. I didn't recognize it at first as my own. I couldn't remember willing myself to speak. But the words hung heavily in the frigid air, and with them began another melody.

This new music was deeper, and richer. At first I thought it was two violins, but then I recognized the cello. The violin whispered. The cello hummed. And the sound began to build.

No! I didn't want to go yet. I wasn't ready. _God, please! I'm not ready!_

I could barely hear my ragged breathing over the music, growing louder and louder as I began to panic.

The violin screamed, the cello wailed, and I was _not_ going to die!

With painful sluggishness, I dragged myself to my feet.

I took a step. And then another. Perhaps I would die either way, but I was not going to give up so easily.

One step, and then another. On it went, in time with the music about me, giving me the strength to keep walking.

But I was still lost, still cold, and still so very alone.

I missed Watson.

I would never see him again if I did not survive. I would never solve another case with him by my side. I would never see his smile, or hear his laughter. I would never I would never be able to tell him how sorry I was that I had abandoned him. I would never be able to deliver the thousand apologies he deserved.

Even more than the melody piercing the night, this gave me the strength I needed to continue.

An eternity seemed to pass as I weaved clumsily between the trees, in search of shelter.

Time stood still as I struggled with exhaustion and perhaps the inevitable.

"Herr Holmes! Herr Holmes!"

The music stopped. My heart jumped. Had I been found at last?

"I'm here!" I tried to shout, but my voice was too weak.

"Herr Holmes!" I saw the two figures coming over a hill.

"Here!" My voice was louder this time.

"Holmes!" the voice cried, and I saw them rush towards me.

Relief flooded through me, and for the second time that night, I fell to the ground. But this time I did not fall because I had given up.

I fell because I knew that even if I had not the strength to go on, I had friends who would always be able to pick me up.

Perhaps I was lost.

Certainly, I was cold.

But I was not alone.


	16. December 16

**December 16: "A man named Steven Moggat decides to write a present-day adaptation of Sherlock Holmes. But what parts will he write for the feisty female characters...?" (from Poseidon God of the Seas**)

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This one's a BBC Sherlock-verse fic.**

* * *

><p>John took a deep breath before going in the door of 221b. What was he going to tell Sherlock?<p>

It had began as any other grocery shopping had begun. He'd grabbed a basket, and went in search of milk and the other miscellaneous food they were running low on.

He'd been in the refrigerated aisle, looking for Sherlock's preferred brand of milk, when he noticed the woman. She was tall and thin, with short dark hair, wore distractingly bright pink gauge earrings, and was wearing more leather than John had ever seen in one place before.

As one often sees interestingly-dressed characters while out shopping, John didn't give her another thought, until he saw her again next to the vegetables, and again behind the bread.

But not until she followed him out of the store did he confront her.

"Why are you following me?" he demanded.

"Why don't you figure that out for yourself," she replied.

"Did Sherlock put you up to this?"

"No," the woman replied, smirking.

"Well, did Mycroft?"

"No," she said again.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

She shrugged. "Doesn't much matter who I am, I have your wallet." She held it up.

John reached instinctively for his pocket, and with a jolt realized it wasn't there. "Give me that!" he exclaimed.

The woman took a step back. "Trade you. Wallet for the groceries."

John eyed her cautiously. She appeared very athletic, and would probably be able to outrun him. "Why do you want my groceries?"

"Does it matter? Just give them to me." She held out her hand. He really hadn't bought too many groceries, perhaps he had better not risk his wallet for milk, lettuce, and yogurt.

"Fine," he grumbled, and handed her the bag. She put the wallet in his hand and smiled sweetly.

"Thanks," she said, and ran away with his groceries.

John sighed and checked the time. He decided he had better just get home.

Now he stood outside the door, wondering what he would tell Sherlock.

* * *

><p>"You took your time," commented Sherlock, not looking up from his book.<p>

"Yeah, I didn't get the shopping," John replied.

"What?" said Sherlock, now giving John his full attention. "Why not?"

"Because I had a row in the shop with a chip and PIN machine."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: That last bit was taken directly from the episode The Blind Banker.**


	17. December 17

**December 17: "Mycroft's girlfriend." (from Ennui Enigma)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I tried to keep Mycroft as IC as possible, but I may have stretched it a ****_little_**** bit.**

* * *

><p>When I received a telegram from my dear brother Mycroft, summoning me urgently to the Diogenes Club, I had expected him to have found an interesting case, not a lady friend!<p>

When my Mycroft and I arrived in a room in the club where conversation was allowed, he was the first to speak.

"Do you remember that day eight years ago, when you told me I would never find a woman willing to put up with me and my strange habits?"

"I don't recall ever saying such a thing to you, but I have thought similar things on occasion," I replied dryly.

"Well, I have found one."

"Found what?" My brain couldn't quite register what my brother was saying.

"A lady friend." He grinned broadly.

Good heavens! What has gotten into him?!

"I see…" was all I could manage.

"She is wonderful, Sherlock."

"Well…that is good…"

"And she is very pretty, in her own way."

"Er…yes…"

"She is an amazing cook."

"That sounds…nice…"

"Her name is Henrietta. Such a lovely name, don't you think?"

"Yes, er, very lovely…"

"I think I've fallen in love."

"I—well, er…congratulations?"

"Thank you."

There was a long silence.

"Well, it was good talking to you Sherlock."

"And you as well." I replied uncertainly.

I have had a great deal of strange and unexpected conversations in my lifetime, but I do believe this was the strangest and most unexpected of the lot.


	18. December 18

**December 18: "The pupil has surpassed the master." (from Poseidon God of the Seas)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: From Mary Watson's POV.**

* * *

><p>Poor Mrs. Hudson had been sick with a terrible cold all of the week before Christmas, and she felt awful that she would not be able to bake any sugar cookies this year.<p>

She and I both how much John and Holmes loved them—and quite honestly I enjoyed them very much myself—so I decided to drop by and ask her for her recipe in hopes that I might be able to make some for everyone this year.

"Yes, yes—ah, achoo! Of course you may borrow my recipe," said Mrs. Hudson, sniffling. "But I am not always consistent with the amounts, so don't be surprised if they don't turn out quite the same."

"My mother was the same way with her baking," I replied. "I think I can handle it."

"Oh, I have no doubts about that," she said, beaming. "Thank you so much for doing this. I know how much Mr. Holmes and the Doctor enjoy my cookies."

"So do I! They are very good, probably the best I have ever had."

"Thank you. A merry Christmas to you, Mary."

"And you too."

* * *

><p>After I had finished all of my baking, I brought several of the cookies to Mrs. Hudson.<p>

"Good heavens, Mary! These are even better than mine!" she exclaimed after trying one.

"Thank you!" I replied, beaming. "I do hope John and Holmes like them."

"There is not a doubt in my mind that they will," the good lady replied, smiling back.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I just spent the past several hours baking, so that was what's on my mind. xD**


	19. December 19

**December 19: "A case of mistaken identity." (from Ennui Enigma)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Watson's POV. Takes place after Reichenbach but before Empty House.**

* * *

><p>Mary and I were approaching the outskirts of an ordinary crowd, milling about in an ordinary train station. We had taken a short holiday for some fresh air—Mary insisted that I had been working too hard and needed a break—and how we were returning home.<p>

I began carefully shouldering through the crowd, Mary's hand clasped in mine as she followed close behind me.

I saw a face out of the corner of my eye that made my heart jump and my breath catch in my throat. I gasped and stopped dead in my tracks, turning around to look again, to get a better look at the man.

I am not sure exactly what it was about him that caught my eye. Perhaps it was his height and lean figure, or perhaps his dark hair, or prominent nose.

In the brief moment when I had first glimpsed him, I could have sworn I recognized my old friend Sherlock Holmes. But I was wrong, of course. He was dead, and was not coming back.

"John?" My wife asked uncertainly.

"It's nothing," I said hastily and tried to begin walking again, but Mary remained where she was, gently pulling me by the hand back to her.

"It was that man, wasn't it?" she asked me softly, her blue eyes searching my face. "The tall one, just there." She gestured inconspicuously toward him.

I lowered my gaze. "Yes, it was. Sorry, I was just being silly."

She gave my hand a squeeze. "You aren't being silly. It's not uncommon to think that you recognized someone in a crowd."

I sighed and slowly raised my head to meet her eyes again. "I know."

"I miss him too," she said gently. "But he isn't coming back."

A lump began to form in my throat, and I didn't trust my voice so I just gave a nod.

My dear Mary gave me a sad smile. "Come, John, we had better get moving, or we'll miss our train."


	20. December 20

**December 20: "Little Wiggins is given his first ever Christmas present." (from Madam'zelleGiry)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Holmes's POV. Takes place back before he met Watson, and he was still living somewhere on Montague Street.**

* * *

><p>It was Christmas Eve, I was seated on the floor before the small fire in my rooms in Montague Street along with six-year-old Wiggins and his five-year-old cousins Teddy and Jamie.<p>

I was not normally one for celebrating Christmas, as I had never had anyone to celebrate with, and in recent years, I hadn't the money for it anyway. This year, however, I had just solved a rather lucrative case, so when Wiggins had mentioned that his family had never celebrated Christmas because there just wasn't enough money, I decided that I would give the children a small Christmas celebration.

Those boys had been helpful to me on more than one occasion. And they were good boys…or at least they had the potential to be. I first met little Wiggins when he tried to relieve me of my pocketbook, but when he had the option to earn his keep legally, he did it.

"Blimey, Mr. 'Olmes!" little Wiggins exclaimed when I handed each of them a small wrapped package. "Oi've never 'ad a Christmas present before!"

"Me neither!" piped up Teddy excitedly.

Jamie grinned from ear to ear and bounced. "Can I open it? Can I open it?"

"Go ahead," I said, and they cheerfully tore the paper off the parcels.

I hadn't been quite sure what to get the boys, but I eventually decided on new hats and gloves. It had been frightfully cold lately, and I did not want them suffering from frostbite.

"They're so warm!" exclaimed Jamie, who was the first to have his gloves unwrapped and on his hands.

"Oh, I've never had a hat this soft before!" said Teddy, rubbing it against his face.

"Thank you so much, Mr. 'Olmes!" exclaimed Wiggins, hugging me tightly. "This is the best Christmas ever!"


	21. December 21

**December 21: "Garlic and a mummy." (from Ennui Enigma)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Good old Watson's POV today.**

* * *

><p>"Holmes, what are you doing? And why does the sitting room smell like garlic?" I asked as I approached the sitting room doorway, unsure if I really wanted to know the answer.<p>

"Step back!" Holmes commanded from the settee. It appeared he had completely wrapped his legs in white bandages, and was now in the midst of wrapping his torso. "Don't disturb the garlic!"

I sighed and crossed my arms, and remained in the doorway. "Let me rephrase my question. Why are you covering yourself in bandages, and why is there a line of garlic around the perimeter of the sitting room? You know that will be terribly difficult to clean up."

"It matters not!" Holmes exclaimed, waving his arms. I made to step into the room again, and again he shrieked, "_Step back_!"

I marched into the room, despite his vehement protests. "Holmes, this has gone too far! I am taking your temperature. No, no! Settle down, nothing you say can change my mind. You are obviously not yourself!"

Holmes let out a low growl. "How would you know?"

"As your friend and doctor, I think I should have a pretty good idea," I replied, digging in my bag for a thermometer.

"Pah! Egyptian pharaohs have no need for friends or doctors!" he exclaimed.

"You are Sherlock Holmes, not a pharaoh," I returned as calmly as I could. He was truly beginning to scare me.

I approached him with a thermometer, and he leapt from the settee and tried to scrambled away from me and hid behind a chair.

It was at this unfortunate moment that Mrs. Hudson bustled into the room.

"Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson! What in the name of goodness are you doing?!"

"Step back, woman!" Holmes shouted. "You have no power here!"

"He's not well!" I cut in before she retort. "Feverish, more than likely, if he'd stay put long enough for me to check!"

"Hmph! Doctor, what's that on the table?" she asked, pointing. "I didn't make this, and I haven't seen it before."

I glanced at the table. A fruitcake lay there, along with a crumb-covered plate. I was no Sherlock Holmes, but it was clear that my friend had recently eaten a piece.

"Doctor, do you know where this came from?" she asked me.

I shook my head. "No, but I would be willing to bet that something in the fruitcake is what is causing Holmes to behave in this manner. Leave it for now, we'll figure out where it came from after we get Holmes to the hospital. This could be very serious."

"Yes, it could," she replied, her forehead creasing in concern.

"Holmes, please, at least let me check your temperature," I said as I approached him, my voice pleading.

"No! Step back!" He leapt up again, his eyes bright and wild. The next moment, he was crumpling to the ground unconscious.

I barely managed to catch my poor friend before he hit the floor. My thermometer was not so lucky; it fell from my hand and shattered.

"Call a cab," I told poor Mrs. Hudson, who looked as though she might faint if I didn't give her something to do.

She nodded and rushed from the room to do so.

I half carried, half dragged Holmes to the settee and ripped at least most of the bandages off his trousers and waistcoat. The poor fellow! I very much suspected that the fruitcake had been deliberately poisoned, and the thought made me feel queasy.

Who would do such a thing?

I book on the ground caught my eye, and I snatched it up. It appeared to be a guide to beginning research about the ancient Egyptian language. I knew my friend had an interest in linguistics when the fancy struck him, and the book would explain the Egyptian theme of his delusions.

Poor Holmes's hands were getting quite cold and his pulse was lower than it ought to be. I dearly hoped that he would be able to recover from this, and that we would find out who was behind this and bring them to justice.

I will never permit anyone to do something of this nature this to my dearest friend without answering to me!

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Don't worry, Holmes eventually recovers, and they catch the criminal behind it. And Holmes stops Watson before he damages him too badly.**


	22. December 22

**December 22: "I told you not to touch it!" (from Madam'zelleGiry)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Watson's POV.**

**I dedicate this story to the kid in my chemistry class who thought it would be a good idea to touch the hotplate to see if it was hot. The blistered burns on his fingertips would seem to indicate that it was, indeed, hot.**

* * *

><p>"Anything interesting in <em>The Empire News<em> this week?" I inquired of my friend as we sat at the table awaiting our supper.

"Hm," was Holmes's only reply. He was apparently too engrossed in his reading to hear me.

We were silent for a long time, but in the many years of living with Sherlock Holmes, I had grown accustomed to silence.

I leaned back in my chair, watching Holmes's studious expression. As his eyes scanned the article, his brow slowly furrowed and the frown lines around the corners of his mouth deepened. Apparently a particularly gruesome crime had arrested his attention.

"Here you are, gentlemen," said Mrs. Hudson when she finally set down a couple bowls of very thick, delicious potato soup. "But be careful, it's very hot."

"Thank you, we shall be careful," I replied, smiling at her. Goodness, was I hungry!

"Mm," Holmes grunted. He was still paying far more attention to the newspaper than anything else.

Mrs. Hudson gave a quiet "Hmph!" at Holmes's response, turned on her heel, and swept from the room.

I picked up my spoon, dipped it into the soup and blew gently on it, watching the tendrils of steam rise from the delicious soup.

Holmes looked up from his newspaper, as though he had only just noticed food had arrived.

"Ah, wonderful!" He exclaimed, snatching up his spoon, scooping it through the soup.

"Be care—" I began, but it was too late. The spoon was already in his mouth.

My friend's eyes widened and watered, and his face contorted into a grimace of pain as he attempted to swallow. Taking pity on him, I poured some milk into a glass and handed it to him. He accepted it gratefully and gulped it down, blinking back tears.

"That was _hot_!" he exclaimed when he finally spoke.

"You know, Mrs. Hudson and I both did try to warn you," I remarked. "But I suppose if you aren't going to listen to those around you, you ought to at least use your brilliant observational methods. You will, of course, note the steam rising from the soup, which would clearly indicate—"

"I get the idea," Holmes growled.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I know, it didn't ****_quite_**** fit perfectly with the prompt, but I'm really craving potato soup right now for some reason.**

**And hey, I'm actually caught up! :)**


	23. December 23

**December 23: "Watson thinks it's Christmas Eve when it's actually the 23rd. Bad things happen." (from Poseidon God of the Seas)**

* * *

><p>"Merry Christmas, Holmes!" exclaimed Watson cheerfully, strolling into the sitting room. His cheeks and nose were a deep rose color from the winter weather outside, and he carried two brown parcels under his arm.<p>

"What?" asked Holmes, very obviously confused. He was seated in his chair near the fire, reading the_ Daily Chronicle_.

Watson laughed heartily and set down the parcels. "It's Christmas! Have you really forgotten, old fellow?"

The detective's perplexed frown deepened. "My dear Watson, it is only the 23rd!"

Watson stopped dead in his tracks. "Wait a moment…is it really?"

Holmes looked uncomfortable. "Well, yes, it is." He rose from his seat, pointing at the date on the newspaper, and approached his poor friend. "See?"

Watson groaned and ran a hand through his hair. "Oh, no! I went Christmas shopping today—I was supposed to have been at my practice! I do hope no patients came by today…oh, I feel terrible…"


	24. December 24

**December 24: "Midnight Mass." (from Lucillia)**

* * *

><p>"Watson, are you sure this is a good idea?" Holmes whispered to his friend.<p>

"Yes, I do. It can only do them good," was Dr. Watson's reply.

The two were walking down the cold London street, surrounded by twenty-odd boys, all clad in their best attire—which admittedly, was very shabby, but they carried themselves as respectably as if they wore the finest garments England could offer.

"I am more worried about you," the detective muttered. "It's rather a long walk in this weather, and your leg—"

"Doctor!" exclaimed a small freckled boy, tugging on Watson's coat. "Are we almost there yet?"

"Almost," returned Watson, patting the boy tenderly on the shoulder.

"Don't you worry about my leg, Holmes," said Watson softly, shaking his head. "I shall be all right, and even if I wasn't, it would be well worth it to get these boys to church. They need a little of God's light in their lives, and if we can help them to find it, than it is well worth a little pain."

* * *

><p>The group received more than their share of attention from those already in the church. Several very well dressed women turned up their noses at the sight of the children while their husbands found something very interesting to stare at in the opposite direction.<p>

Another man, on the other side of the church smiled when they walked past him in search of a seat. The small boy next to him handed his gloves to Henry, who had none.

"Thank you," whispered Henry gratefully. "Are you sure?"

"I have another pair at home, I don't need them," the other boy said. "Happy Christmas."

Henry beamed and thanked the boy again. After the group had passed, the boy's mother kissed him on the head.

Holmes, Watson and their young friends had arrived early enough to find a large enough empty space a few pews from the back. All together, they took up two full pews.

An elderly couple arrived just two minutes before church began, and John and Eddie gave up their seats for them and stood by the wall.

Halfway through the service, a very small curly-haired girl in a dark blue dress crawled up from the pew behind them, and began tugging on Eddie's trouser leg. When she looked up, and saw no familiar faces, she began to cry.

Eddie carefully scooped up the girl, turned around and handed her back to her mother. The woman's first reaction seemed to be shock at the scruffy appearance of the boy in front of her, but then she smiled warmly.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Merry Christmas," Eddie whispered back.

By the end of Mass, four of the boys had fallen fast asleep, and most of the others were well on their way in that direction. Those four were carried by Holmes, Watson, and the two oldest of the boys: James and Wiggins.

It was well after two-thirty by the time Holmes and Watson had delivered all of the boys to their homes, and nearly three when they reached their own rooms in Baker Street.

"Tired, Watson?" asked the detective, yawning widely. They had taken their seats by the fire so that they could warm themselves a little before bed.

Watson smiled sleepily. "Yes, I suppose I am," he replied.

"You were right," Holmes said. "This was a good thing to do for the boys."

"Yes indeed," replied Watson. "Merry Christmas."

"And the same you as well, my dear Watson."


	25. December 25

**December 25: "Holiday festivities go awry when Mrs. Hudson is kidnapped from Baker Street." (from SheWhoScrawls)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Watson's POV.**

* * *

><p>My wife and I were at home, enjoying our Christmas Eve dinner, when the unmistakable sound of violent knocking came from the front door.<p>

"Watson!" exclaimed Holmes as I opened the door and let him in. "Watson, Mrs. Hudson is gone!"

"What do you mean, 'gone'?" I replied.

"I mean she's _gone_! I haven't seen her all day! I am afraid she has been kidnapped!"

"Holmes, you do know it's Christmas Eve, don't you?" I inquired, completely serious. He had forgotten such things before.

"Well, yes, of course—" my friend blustered.

"Do you recall that Mrs. Hudson always goes to see her sister on Christmas Eve?"

"Does she? Oh. Hm, yes, now that you mention it, you may be right…"

"Now, I am not the detective, but I think it is safe to say that she is most likely at her sister's for the holiday."

"Oh," said Holmes sheepishly. The poor man looked dreadfully embarrassed, and I felt very bad for giving him such a hard time. "Well, thank you," he said awkwardly. "I suppose I should go…"

The poor fellow! "Nonsense! You can stay for dinner with Mary and I, if you like."

"I do not wish to intrude…"

My wife now joined us in the entry way. "You would not be intruding," she said, smiling. "We would be happy to have you join us."


	26. December 26

**December 26: "The saddest, most melodramatic, most over-the-top story you can possibly manage." (from Catherine Spark)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I am so sorry, this is 100% crack-fic.**

* * *

><p>"Mr. Holmes! Please, please <em>please<em>, help me!" the woman wailed.

Holmes rubbed his temple; his newest client's voice was physically painful to hear.

"What can I do for you?" the detective inquired.

"My husband died, my son ran away, my daughter's married an Arabian sheik and moved to India, my money's gone, I lost by job, and now my kitten is missing!"

Almost every word in her statement was punctuated by a violent sob or loud sniffle.

"I see," said Holmes, wishing Watson was here. Distraught women made him uncomfortable, though he could deal with them when necessary. He handed her a handkerchief. "Is there anything in particular that you would like me to do for you?"

"Can I have your autograph?" she asked.


	27. December 27

**December 27: "War wound." (from Poseidon God of the Seas)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Holmes's POV.**

* * *

><p>Watson and I had been out on a very taxing case since before sunrise that morning, and did not arrive back home until nine that night.<p>

I'd reached the top of the stairs when from behind me, Watson let out a pained gasp.

I turned around and saw that he was clutching his thigh.

"Watson?" I said, eyeing my dear friend uncertainly. "Are you all right, old fellow?"

"Yes, yes, I'm all right." His voice and tightly shut eyes betrayed the amount of pain he was in. "It'll pass."

"You had better sit down nonetheless," I replied. Poor fellow!

The old soldier nodded, visibly paler than he had been, and took another step. His let a hiss escape from between his teeth, but made it up the last couple of stairs nonetheless.

I pretended not to be as concerned as I was—the fellow had his pride, and I did not want to bruise it—and poured my friend and I each a brandy. The cold weather and all the time spent upon my feet had certainly gotten to me, and it seemed it had left Watson in even worse straits.

My friend was seated in his chair by the fire when I returned with the warming drinks, and thanked me quietly when I handed his to him.

I hoped it would help him.


	28. December 28

**December 28: "A childhood fear." (from Hades Lord of the Dead)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: 3rd person POV.**

* * *

><p>"Holmes, I…I was wondering if I could ask you something," said Watson uncertainly.<p>

"Yes, I suppose you could," replied Holmes, taking the pipe out from between his teeth. "I won't guarantee I have an answer."

"Well…I was wondering if there was a reason that cats, well, upset you." Watson glanced at his friend.

Holmes did not meet his gaze. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "As a matter of fact, there is."

Watson gave a nod, unsure whether or not he ought to speak.

"A rather silly reason, you might think, but a reason nonetheless."

"Ah," Watson replied.

"When I was little—four, I believe—my brother played a rather nasty prank on me. Mycroft took one of the more spiteful of the local stray cats, stuffed him into a bag, and let him loose in my bedroom one night. The thing was terrified out of its wits, I'm sure, and attacked me. I've still got a scar on my arm from it, actually."

Watson cringed. "That was a rather awful thing for him to do."

Holmes nodded. "I have never quite forgotten it." He gave a dry chuckle. "Silly, I know."

"No, that isn't silly, it is completely understandable," his friend replied indignantly.

"Thank you," Holmes said quietly.

"Why would Mycroft do such a thing?" Watson asked.

Holmes snorted. "It is entirely possible that I let loose a raccoon in his bedroom the night before."


	29. December 29

**December 29: "Reflections." (from Wordwielder)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Special thanks to my adorable 7-year-old cousin, who insisted she do a lot of the typing, and my 13-year-old cousin, who came up with the client's name and some of the randomness.**

**3rd person POV.**

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes was seated in his chair, across from his newest client: a young, red-headed man by the name of William Beckham.<p>

"Mr. Holmes, I have a serious problem," said the young man.

"And what might that be?" inquired Sherlock Holmes.

"My twin is attempting to frame me for stealing our father's money," said Beckham.

"Ah, I see," said the detective. "How do you know this?"

"Because he told me he would," replied the man. "And I don't have a way to prove that it wasn't me! That is why I have come to you."

Holmes gave a curt nod. "I shall see what I can do."

"Thank you," Beckham replied. "The only problem is that my brother will undoubtedly try to speak to you, pretending to be me."

"That could prove to be a problem," said Holmes dryly. "How am I to tell the two of you apart?"

"I will be wearing mismatched socks," the client replied, tugging on his trousers to reveal that one sock was brown and the other was navy blue. "My brother can't stand the sight of mismatched socks, and is always careful that his match. He has this obsession with perfect reflections, which is the same reason he has always dressed similar to me."

"Your twin sounds like a curious fellow," Holmes replied. "Do you know why he has stolen your father's money?"

"I haven't the foggiest notion," Beckham replied.


	30. December 30

**December 30: "221 candles and 1 match." (from Emma Lynch)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Wrote this one with 221 words! :D**

* * *

><p>"Holmes," said Watson in an exasperated tone, "why is every available surface of the sitting room have a candle sitting on it?"<p>

"Well, it's terribly cold in here, so I decided I would see what would happen if I filled the room with candles. It's the three year anniversary of our moving into 221b Baker Street, so I thought it would be fitting to use two hundred twenty-one candles."

"I take it you were bored today?"

"It is entirely possible," Holmes acknowledged. "Would you like to help me light them?"

Watson shrugged, resigned to his friend's strange hobbies. "Sure."

Holmes dug his book of matches out of the pocket of his dressing gown and opened it. "Blast!" he exclaimed. "I've only one match left!"

"That was rather poor planning on your part," Watson remarked.

"Hush, Watson, I'm thinking," replied Holmes.

Watson sighed.

"Well, we shall simply have to light a couple of candles with the one match I have, and light the rest using the lit candles."

"A logical conclusion," replied Watson dryly.

"You think I'm being ridiculous, don't you?" demanded Holmes, his voice accusatory.

Watson chuckled. "No, no," he said. "Unconventional, perhaps, but not ridiculous. I'm sorry if I led you to believe otherwise."

Holmes waved him off. "It is of no consequence. Come, let us light these candles!"


	31. December 31

**December 31: "Watson and Holmes to welcome the New Year in a place other than Baker Street." (from W. Y. Traveller)**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE! WAHOO!**

**Another huge thanks to Hades Lord of the Dead, and to all who have read and reviewed! :D**

* * *

><p>Neither Holmes nor Watson could see a thing in the oppressive darkness about them. The small room was cold and dank, and the air smelled stale.<p>

"Well, I can't say as I ever expected to spend New Year's Eve in an old Austrian castle," whispered Watson. He and Holmes were seated on crates in the hidden storage room beneath their client's spare bedroom, as this was where the jewelry was being stored.

"Shh," snapped Holmes. "Our quarry will be arriving soon, and we can't alert him to our presence."

Watson gave a nod; then, realizing that Holmes could not see him in the dark, whispered, "Yes."

It was quiet for a long moment, which stretched into an indeterminable length of time. The only sounds that could be heard were the soft breathing of the detective and his biographer.

After a painfully long time, the sound of footsteps echoed about the corridor. From the sound of it, there was only one man.

He entered the room, lamp held aloft, shining light into the little room.

Holmes sprang from his hiding place behind the crates and tackled the man to the floor.

The lamp crashed to the ground and went out, plunging the room into blackness once more. There were loud grunts and gasps from both Holmes and the criminal as the struggled. Watson quickly lit his own lantern.

He held it aloft when it was lit, revealing that that the criminal—a well-muscled, robust man with sandy hair—lay facedown upon the ground with Holmes pinning him down. He attempted to roll onto his side and jabbed his elbow up at Holmes, who grabbed his arm and shoved him back to the ground with a grunt.

"Well, well, Mr. Holmes," said the criminal through clenched teeth. "I take it you discovered my intentions, and that I knew where the jewels were."

"Indeed I did," replied Sherlock Holmes. "And I do hope you enjoy your new year behind bars."


End file.
